Move Down
by Saloma-Kiwi
Summary: Three Hatters walk into a bar. Jervis Tetch, Reginald Theophilus the Third, and Hatter Madigan all meet for a drink. Gratuitous amounts of tea consumed, problems discussed, and philisophical discussions ensue. Enjoy!


**A/N: ****Anyone who can guess the patron cameos will get big kudos! This fiction was inspired by two pieces of art created by thenumber42 and Crispy~Gypsy . They can be found here:**

www. deviantart. com/deviation/73653251/

www. deviantart .com/art/Hatter-x2-73658044

(remove spaces)

**The persona of Reginald Thophilus the Third is owned by bri-chan.  
And finally, the idea of calling Jonathan Crane (the Scarecrow) Jervis' "March Hare" is Esperata's.  
Hatter Madigan is owned by Frank Beddor and Jervis Tetch is owned by WB. I am only borrowing them and I am not making any profit from this work.  
I own the location, Angie, and most of the storyline, save putting these three together in the first place which was inspired by thenumber42 and Crispy~Gypsy . **

It was a place where you could meet anyone—and very often did.

A lively little place. Lively—but hardly a dive.

Large—yet small enough to be cozy. A place to comfortably fit a vast array of patrons.

A bar only by name. A tavern more like—fewer negative connotations and good food besides.

Classy, but casual.

Rough, but relaxed.

A place of contradictions to match its patrons.

A colorful enough atmosphere to fit with its contrasting palate of people.

Literally a place where you could meet anyone.

Even if they weren't from the same world as you.

Inside, there were tables, chairs, a wide expanse of floor, a bar with stools. As you might expect from a place like this one. The lighting was dim, highlighting the eerie charge of mystery to each one of the present patrons.

The flick of a black cape and one disappeared through a door and down the stairs to the proverbial back room.

A light chuckle, graceful, secretive, from a woman with eyes gleaming like jade, seated across from a dark, handsome man at a corner table. Underneath his casual demeanor, his eyes remained guarded.

Another table—across the room—a woman seated by herself, her face as smooth and calm as a stone worn by years lying on a creek bed.

And at the table behind that one, a scruffy young boy sitting before a laptop drinking from a can of orange soda.

A blond gentleman neatly dressed, looking perpetually amused by something, striding through the door.

And finally—at the bar—three men seated side-by-side, dressed with _frightening_ similarity, drowning their troubles in…

Tea.

The first gentleman wore blue—a blue trench coat, vest, shirt, bowtie, and grey pants. He had a large top hat beside his cream-colored teacup with a card tucked into the band that read: "10/6". He was, of course, Jervis Tetch, alias The Mad Hatter, of Gotham City.

To his immediate right sat a gentleman with white hair, wearing an orange three-quarter length trench coat, a sparkly blue vest, and a garish green bowtie with a positively enormous top hat to match perched upon his head. The card tucked into _his_ band read: "In this size, 10/6". This man was indeed Reginald Leopold Theophilus the Third, The Mad Hatter of Wonderland.

Finally, to _his_ immediate right sat a man dressed in neat, sensible navy blue. Slacks, a button-down shirt, and a three-quarter length trench coat. The blue top hat in his white-gloved hand flattened with a flick of his wrist and disappeared into an inside coat pocket. This was the stoic bodyguard of Queen Alyss, Hatter Madigan of Wonderland's Millinery.

Another patron approached the bar casually. He opened his mouth to order when he was met with a sudden shout,

"NO ROOM, NO ROOM!"

"No room!"

The slight man fled. It was the most intelligent thing to do.

None of the other patrons dared turn their eyes on the spectacle.

No—best to leave _those_ three alone.

Jervis ran a hand through his untidy blond hair with a sigh. He leaned on the counter in an uncharacteristically ungentlemanly manner, nursing his cup of Earl Grey.

"Rough day?" the hatted Reginald asked, sipping from his cup of English Breakfast, poured from a bright blue pot sitting on the bar.

(There were half a dozen more pots on hand. These gentlemen were the reason the establishment's owner had invested in six more tea sets (complete with saucers and teaspoons) as well as four more tea kettles. One just never knew with these three around. They could drink more tea in one sitting than a lifelong wino with an unlimited budget could slurp wine.)

" 'The prettiest are always further,' "he whispered in answer with a dejected sigh, running one gloved finger along the rim of his cup in an endless ring.

Reginald gave him a pat on the back, "In—"

"_She's married him_," madness gleamed in Jervis' blue eyes. "My Alice had gone and married that—that BOY!"

"Ah… now _that's _a different matter." Reginald seemed quite untroubled by his companion's sudden mood swing—no, he deemed it perfectly normal. "Have some more tea, Jervis old chap."

The blond sighed. "Perhaps…"

He proceeded to drown the entire cup.

"Clean cup, clean cup!" Reginald crowed.

The bartender appeared in an instant. Angelina—Angie, as everyone knew her—was quite used to these outbursts. As per usual, she switched the cups and poured some more—already brewed.

(The Hatters would not actually move down a seat. They had tried that once, only to discover that there is a limited amount of barstools—instead of going down both sides of the bar, they only covered one side, and so, they would eventually reach the end and would not be able to move anymore, rather than taking the normal endless circuit at a long table, around which were chairs on _both _sides. In short: the Hatters were unable to move down at the small bar.)

"Should I leave the pot?" offered Angie.

Jervis nodded numbly.

Down the bar, Madigan ran both hands through his neat, brown hair. "I would like a pot of green—as strong as you can brew it, if you please," he requested.

The bartender nodded and popped into the kitchen.

Reginald—who seemed to have quite forgotten Jervis' troubles—was suddenly reminded of his own. Which were ever so much more important, in his opinion after all, "Well," he declared dramatically, as though he had been asked what _his _troubles were and had been given an open invitation to speak, "_my _Alice is right this minute having tea with Hare—and without _me!_ _I _wasn't even _invited!_" The hatter waved his arms above his head. Jervis watched patiently, glumly sipping more tea. "Here she attended the Spring Ball with me and—and—what? _Nothing! _That's what! I have _never_ had this much trouble in all my—"

Angie returned with a cup, saucer, and pot for Madigan. "Green, strong as it gets," she announced.

Jervis blinked and gazed past the garishly dressed hatter beside him to the bodyguard. "Green, Madigan? What would possess you to order _green_?" The British gentleman made a slight face.

Madigan stared straight ahead, his dark eyes unblinking. "Weaver is dead."

"But—didn't you already rec—"

"Yes. She was only captured. I found her, rescued her. She was killed."

The stoic gentleman poured himself a steaming cup of tea and slung it back.

He poured more.

Jervis shook his head. "My good man; that _is_ dire news. How very—unfortunate."

Reginald agreed with a nod and slight frown. At least _his_ Alice lived—and was _having tea with HIS best friend, not caring that she was usurping HIS position and having a lovely tea __without__HIM__!_

Madigan's eyes softened a little. He drank some more, a controlled expression dominating his features.

Jervis looked about. "But… what about your duties to the Queen? Surely you have to get back to Her Majesty soon—not to judge mind you, but how have you the time to come here?"

Madigan met Jervis' blue eyes with his black ones. "I took a leave of absence until I am ready to return. Queen Alyss was generous enough to grant it."

"Ah. Then whom…?"

Madigan stared off again. There was a silence as he drank some more tea. "Weaver died defending her… our… daughter. Molly is the Queen's bodyguard now." His eyes were gentle rather than stoic. For, like the others he was indeed only a man. "Homburg Molly."

"A daughter…" Jervis trailed off. He took a large gulp of his tea. It scalded his throat, but what did it matter?

Alice would probably have a daughter. She would make such a good mother, the dear…

But Billy—he almost retched simply _thinking_ that simpering, wretched little snark's name—_THAT BOY_ would be no father!

The three Hatters were silent a while, each absorbed in his own version of a waking nightmare.

"Where is _your_ March Hare?" Reginald asked suddenly.

Jervis blinked away fantastic visions of an untimely end for Billy. "Mm? Probably with his latest batch of toxin. This one finds deeply personal fears, he tells me. I imagine he's found a subject by now." Jervis downed the last of his tea and poured another steaming cup.

Another silence.

"Have I merely dreamed it?" demanded Jervis suddenly, quietly.

"_Someone_ has to have dreamed everything. How else can it be?" answered Reginald helpfully, a question for a question with a toothy grin of pride for knowing the answer.

"Else someone _Imagined_ it," added Madigan quietly.

" 'Which dreamed it?' " pondered Jervis in a barely audible whisper.

There was a pause as the trio of Hatters considered this.

"Well," began Reginald finally, "if _you_ dreamed it, Jervis, would you mind dreaming us some better luck?" he requested with greatest solemnity.

"Indeed—indeed," Jervis nodded. As though this were the most natural and logical request in the world. "I shall do my best!"

Yet another silence as the Hatters drank their tea.

Angie chose this moment to plop a tray on the bar. "Bread and jam, gentleman?" she asked needlessly. These three lived on patterns. The bread and jam would be now. Always. Whether or not all three partook, the bread and jam would be there, as per usual, lest they get tetchy. And they would, if everything was not precisely as it should be and precisely as it always had been.

" 'Jam tomorrow and jam yesterday, but _never_ jam today,' " replied Jervis automatically.

"I'll leave the jar, then—and butter as well," she said as Reginald reached for the tray. Angie disappeared into the kitchen to give the three their privacy as she always had.

Reginald, pushing up the sleeves of his orange coat just a little to prevent them from getting all sticky slathered a great deal of jam onto a slice of bread and proceeded to pop the entire thing into his mouth. He made an approving noise. "Strawberry! How I _do _love strawberry!"

Madigan and Jervis chose to stick with their tea, barely listening as Reginald went on about his food.

"I always have, you know, even before Time decided to be difficult and make it tea-time all the time!" Suddenly he reached for some butter and spread _that _on another piece of bread. "But _really_—who thinks these things up?"

Madigan vaguely pondered this, perfectly accustomed to the thoughts and subjects of his companions shifting like quicksilver.

"Clean cu--!"

Angie reappeared and cleared away Jervis' things and replaced them afresh.

"Ah, thank you, my dear."

"You're very welcome." The bartender smiled, and as she passed Reginald added, "Authors."

Jervis and Reginald frowned. "Disagreeable Borogroves, then, the lot of them!" The complaint sounded in perfect unison.

Madigan did not seem to notice. "A cruel trick," he mused in agreement. "Earth-world people inflicting their misery upon those elsewhere."  
"Why Earth-world people?" inquired Reginald, cocking his head at such an angle that his oversized top hat seemed it would tumble off his head.

"Who else is miserably wretched enough to need to vent and spread their misery elsewhere in order to get some relief?" the stoic Hatter replied.

"So… we're just poor, miserable reflections of the hearts and lives of poor, miserable authors?" Jervis tapped his chin thoughtfully with one white-gloved hand, as he did so often while considering aspects of nanotechnology.

"Or else Sadists." The milliner bodyguard shrugged his strong shoulders.

There was a pause as this was considered—briefly.

The atmosphere was ponderous, the lighting dim.

Angie was quietly bustling about the kitchen, the scrape of utensils beyond the dark wooden doors just barely heard.

Three Hatters sat side by side, a bright orange jacket in between a militaristic blue and the soft blue of a broken heart. One overlarge green top hat on a head of white hair, a blue one on the table beside a blond gentleman's teacup, and one folded flat, unseen in the neat coat of the third man.

A light, indistinct murmur of other patrons filled the air.

And then—

"I think I need another cup of tea."

"CLEAN CUP!"

"Clean cup!"

"Move down."

**A/N: Again, please make a guess as to some of the patrons mentioned at the beginning! And please leave a review; I would love to know what you think! I am considering making a crossover series taking place in this bar with any different characters. Let me know if you think it is worthwhile!**


End file.
